


Hit, Falling, Falling, Fallen

by Dammit_Jim



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: Alternative Universe - Canon, Bad!007, Bad!Bond, Blowjobs, Choking, Dom/sub, Dubious conesent, Evil!007, Evil!Bond, Gunplay, M/M, Manipulation, Porn With Plot, Stockholm Syndrome, food!kink, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dammit_Jim/pseuds/Dammit_Jim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the scene where Bond is tied to a chair by Silva. Silva is good with manipulation, he knows that, once he gets under your skin you can't get him out. So it's no real surprise to the vengeful man when he succeeds in corrupting MI6’s brightest and best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hit

**Author's Note:**

> In my opinion Bond just about fucks anything that walks on two legs but for plot purposes I’m going to go with Bond just never really thinking about it and so yeah...he’s a little surprised when a guy tries their moves on him. So not really homophobia but kind of just heterosexuality by habit...lol. Also Raoul Silva is spanish just like Javier Bardem because he still has the accent and in the movie it never says whether he is or not.
> 
> I’m also playing around with a new kind of style where there’s a third person kind of commentary on what Bond’s thinking...so...not really sure if it worked. Hoping it did. Also I think my characters are a little OOC and I'm so very sorry for that. 
> 
> This is my first Skyfall fanfiction so please forgive OOC'ness and general crappiness. Thanks!  
> Enjoy!

"See what she's done to you," Silva muttered in a quiet, almost concerned, tone.

"Well she never tied me to a chair," Bond responded, cautiously calculating the man's actions.

"Her loss," was the man's response.

Bond was tempted to raise an eyebrow, but he knew how this worked. Villains tended to do this sort of thing; it kind of went with the whole evil agenda. Flirting was just always in the package, though it was usually accompanied with far more sarcasm than the serious concern Bond was reading on Silva's distracted face.

Silva began running a hand across Bond's collarbone, but the Double 'O' Agent dismissed it with a smirk, congratulating the man on his acting skills - in his mind of course, he'd never give him the satisfaction. Two could play at this game. Why not taunt back?

You sure this is about M?" And he couldn't help the little smirk from crawling onto his face, not that Silva saw it. He was too focused on Bond's collar and neck.

"It's about her," Silva nodded halfheartedly, taking a small almost breathless gulp, "and you, and me." 

It may have been the intensity of the gaze the platinum blond had focused on him or the way his voice had slightly cracked on the word 'you', but Bond finally got it, he finally understood that this was not sarcastic flirtation. Oh dear.

"You see we are the last two rats," Silva continued, "we can either eat each other..." and of course the man smirked at that, sending shivers down Bond's spine as the connotations of his words sunk in. 

"Or eat everyone else," and then he had his hand on Bond's neck, stroking gently, and Bond had to struggle to remain silent because what the fuck...how can a man's hands even feel like that?

"How you're trying to remember your training now," Silva smiled, watching Bond's reaction as the agent tensed involuntarily under the soft, tender hands. 

Bond chastised himself, dear god he had gone up against sexy leather-wearing women doing the same to him, and yet this man had him all flustered like an amateur, like a teenager. 007 pulled himself together, giving the villain a smirk that gave none of his doubt or inexperience away. But of course Silva, being the manipulative bastard he was, saw through it and decided to push Bond even further, removing his hands and laying them on Bond's legs.

"Well first time for everything," he told him in his thick accent, stroking his hands down Bond's suit pants.

Bond smirked cockily because no he wasn't mentally freaking out because he wouldn't do that would he? And no he wasn't getting surprisingly warm in places he'd prefer not to really think about when being felt up by a man. Time for a comeback 007, something that'll have the Silva pedophile knights retreating back to square one.

"What makes you think this is my first time," cool, smooth, quite convincing. Good.

"Oh Mister Bond," Silva exclaimed breathlessly, leaning back as if in surprise. Seemed Bond's lie had worked, or at least Silva wanted Bond to think it had worked.

Silva tried to hide a smirk, which wasn't lost to Bond's scrutiny, and failed miserably, giving a toothy mocking grin.

"Shall I show you to your room 007?"

Bond remained silent, trying to think of anything but a bed and Silva's hands stroking his suit-less legs.

Despite the lack of threats and lack of games of 'Why not use 007 as a Punching Bag,' and Silva's surprisingly hospitable attitude toward Bond; the Double 'O' Agent's room consisted of a dingy dark cell with four walls and a cobblestone floor. However, Bond didn't look on it as a bad thing. The way things were going back there, he'd prefer some good old fashioned threats at gun point instead of the touchy feely game Silva had going.

Though, now that Bond was left to muse over it in the damp shadows, he wasn't quite as apposed to the idea of sleeping with a man as he'd first thought. It was more the fact that the man in question was cynical and not to mention vengeful, and had technically nearly blown his boss to kingdom come. Though that hadn't really stopped Bond from sleeping with his female enemies...but they were so utterly gorgeous you couldn't really help yourself. Of course that led to 007 considering where Silva actually stood on the gorgeous scale and sadly it was Bond's cock that won out. Damn.

But he could always look on the bright side, at least if anything embarrassing happened he had the option of killing the man without any terrible repercussions. Imagine if it had been Q he'd suddenly got the hots for, and oh dear, yes he was now thinking about slamming that barely legal idiot against his pristine white desk.

So yes, Bond was a little distracted from attempting, let alone thinking up an escape plan. Though that was rather the point Silva had aimed for. The first step of manipulation was to create doubt in the person in question. The second step was to layer that doubt with lust. Raoul Silva was ever so good at killing two bird with one stone, especially if that bird had already begun to fall from the sky.


	2. Falling Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva knows how easy it’s going to be from the start. He can see it in the resignation in Bond’s cold blue gaze, in the flickering doubt which lingers for far more than a second. He knows that he’s struck bull’s-eye and that Bond is barely standing upon his own two feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this took a little longer than expected, as you can see I wanted to express quite a lot. XD Anyway, for this chapter theres: explicit scenes, chocking and slight foodkink.  
> Enjoy!

Silva knows how easy it’s going to be from the start. He can see it in the resignation in Bond’s cold blue gaze, in the flickering doubt which lingers for far more than a second. He knows that he’s struck the bull’s-eye and that Bond is barely standing upon his own two feet. After showing the agent his test results, which were...predictably terrible to say the least, it hadn’t taken Silva long to convince him that the legitimate results were in fact that, legitimate, and that M had initially sent a stumbling wreck of a man into the fire range of this weeks Enemy no.1.

Well, Bond already knew M lied, and he already knew that she’d kill him to keep Her country safe. The whole fight on the train, ‘Take the shot,’ kind of spoke for itself. So yes, Silva wasn’t at all surprised at how easy it was to manipulate Bond. Though, if he were to admit it, he did prefer it if there was at least a little resistance. At the end of the day he was Spanish, and under the romantic Sauvé exterior Silva did in fact like it rough and messy. After all, the thrill, despite everything, was in fact in the chase.

So Silva gave Bond reason to hold onto the little loyalty to MI6 that he had left. For the time being, that is. He wouldn’t even have to try very hard to pull Bond back to his way of seeing. But oh how Silva loved watching the rat run around in his maze, finding hope where there wasn’t. 

Four days. That’s how long Silva gave him. Four days of Bond living in the dingy dark of loyalty and hope, or in other words four days without food or water. To be honest, Silva was surprised at the man’s resistance, but by sunset of the fourth day it was obvious Bond was beginning to deteriorate into a state of no return. It was evidently time for Silva to help the man up, and lead him to the skies crumbling edge.

The heavy metal door to Bond’s cell opened with a louder groan than Silva would have liked, but oh well. It hardly mattered to Bond, who lay in the diminishing light of the single barricaded window.  
“Double ‘O’ Seven,” Silva sang, “how are we doing?”  
There was no answer, as the man continued to stare of into the dark distance. Silva knelt beside him, “Bond?” tapping his cheek lightly, “Wakey, wakey, James.”  
The agent’s eyes finally lazily rose to meet his.  
Silva bit his lip, “Oops,” he said, placing a hand over his mouth in mock shock. He frowned, “See this is why I’m no good with pets,” he informed the man, “I always forget that they need feeding, oh dear.”

He smirked down at him, “I think it’s time you dine with me, yes?” he tilted his head considering the dirty state of Bond’s suit and the short beard that he wasn’t sure if he actually liked or not, “After a bath I think and perhaps a snack or two just to get you on your feet,” he gave one curt nod, “then we will talk.”

As much as he disliked the idea of others with their hands all over the double ‘O’ agent before him, he refused to dine with a dirty guest, and so sacrifices had to be made. When Bond was clean and dressed in a new, dashing, suit - Silva bought it so of course it was – he was all but dragged into the long hall and dumped in the seat at the end of the equally long dining table. Silva sat at the head of the table, watching the heavy-lidded guest as he looked about. Bond looked sickly, though the little food he’d been given had seemed to help.

“Water,” Silva ordered, and water was brought before Bond, who reached over with his right hand to take it, he suddenly winced and pulled his arm back, holding his shoulder with the other hand. Silva sighed, taking the opportunity to rush to the man’s aid. 

“Shh,” Silva soothed in response to Bond’s groans, “relax, James.”

Silva then seated himself on the arm of the chair and took the cool glass in hand. Bond watched cautiously as Silva did so, his eyes squinting in distrust. He had his lips pursed tightly shut, holding back any groans of pain that might escape.

“If you’re frightened of me poisoning or drugging you, James,” Silva smirked, “I’ve had far better opportunities to do so.”

Bond’s lips quivered as he thought before he lent back against the chair, opening his mouth to accept the help. Silva smirked and took his cleanly shaven chin, pouring the cold water in small quantities into Bond’s mouth. A few drops escaped to roll down James’ pale slightly pasty skin, and Silva delighted in watching them attempt to lead him passed the collar of Bond’s suit.

When the glass of water was finished, another was brought forward, and another, and while Bond tried to gulp down the water Silva held him in place and gave him the proper healthy quantities. Soon Bond was looking a little livelier and had even mumbled a ‘thank you,’ of all things. But of course, he was British.

“How is that, James?” Silva asked, “Better I think.”

The platinum blond smirked and gestured for a black clad guard to move his seat from the other end of the table to beside Bond.

“Ah,” he smiled, once seated, “yes, I think the view is far better here.”

Bond sighed, watching the man with a cold calculating gaze, which Silva met with a tilt of his head.

“What do you want with me?” Bond finally asked, “codes, passwords, names? You already have all of that.”

Silva’s lips quirked into a smile as he readjusted one of Bond’s stray hairs. 

“And anything you don’t have,” Bond continued unperturbed by the gesture, “you could easily get.”

Silva laughed and stood, “Too right,” then he raised a hand, “but,” he stepped back, “you misunderstand me, James, you are my guest; it is only M whom I wish to harm.”

The bait was laid, and now Silva waited for the fish to bite. 

Bond studied him, “And yet you starve me of food and water,” he replied, “and I fail to see how my captivity aids your plan.”

“Perhaps, then, we should ponder this over dinner,” Silva smiled, not missing the way Bond’s Adams apple began bobbing as he swallowed involuntarily.

Men entered the room with several plates of food, all of which were for Bond. The largest of the plates was placed in front of Bond, who eyed it, struggling to keep himself from digging in. The plate was stacked with several steaks, steaming and dripping with juice. Silva eyed Bond with humorous anticipation. Bond bit the insides of his cheeks quite visibly but remained in place, staring at the food in front of him. 

“Remember James,” Silva said, “I’ve had far better opportunities to poison you.”

Bond seemed to accept this, because as soon as the words had left Silva’s mouth, the starved agent had dug in. No knife or fork was supplied, though Bond was so hungry he daren’t care.

Silva watched in fascination. Bond was ever the gentleman, despite everything, but dear, dear me, how human, how beautifully pure he looked when in desperation. There was something strangely erotic about watching an English gentlemen forcibly stripped of his façade of education, and pushed back into his raw animal origins, into the ‘eat or be eaten’ primeval instinct. 

Bond leant over the plate as he held the dripping meat, biting into it and tearing in to pieces. Red juice, like blood, dribbled down his chin just as the water had, staining his shirt a deep maroon. Silva smirked, thinking back on his words, on the words he had told Bond. He was beginning to rewrite the man, beginning to change his nature.

Silva had starved the man of his habitual food source, of sophisticated food, and then supplied him with red, juicy steaks. It was only natural for Bond to react in the way he had. 

After the second steak, Bond had returned to a somewhat civilised manner, sitting straighter and taking smaller bites, making sure to wipe the red juice from his mouth. Silva watched him the whole time with a smile, enjoying the view and power struggle behind the glassy gaze.

Bond missed a drop. It sat, invitingly on his chin, bouncing with every swallow of the agent’s pale neck. Silva couldn’t take it anymore, he leant in, taking Bond by surprise, running his tongue along his jawline and licking up the stray juice. Bond swallowed the meat he was chewing and froze in place.

“I’ve starved you,” Silva whispered, moving to James’ ear.

Bond breathed out shakily.

“What do you do when you’re hungry James?” Silva asked.

“I find food,” he replied after a long pause.

“And when you’re thirsty?”

“I find water.”

“And when you’re in need of something stronger you find whisky, and when you need to rest you find a bed, and when you can’t sleep you take pills,” Silva paused, giving a kiss, which could hardly be called that, to Bond’s jaw, just under his ear. Silva’s lips were dry but the touch was still soft, the wet inside of his lower lip sticking to Bond’s chin for a moment.

“And when you want a fuck?”

“I...” Bond breathed in, “I find someone.”

Silva smirked and moved around so Bond could see him, “Oh dear me, James,” he told him, “You’re starved,” he leant in close again so that Bond was breathing the same air as him, “Let me feed you up to your old healthy self,” he smirked at the connotations, Bond could hardly refuse him now.

Silva pushed his guest’s food to the edges of the table, taking its place in front of Bond. The guards, as if on silent command, left the room, but Bond was too transfixed by Silva he hardly noticed. Silva watched Bond’s reaction, pouting his lips slightly just so he could prevent the smirk from spreading across his face.

Bond swallowed again, and Silva licked his dry lips invitingly. When the last guard had left, Silva outstretched a hand to run along Bond’s jaw, before hooking his fingers into the agent’s short, sandy hair, and pulling him forwards into a kiss. James’ lips were softer than they looked, but not nearly as experienced as he’d have liked; they were far too masculine and overpowering. It was obvious to Silva that this was Bond’s first time with a man; while he may have been experienced in the bed of a woman’s, he was as predicted, a habitually strong dominant. Nothing a bit of manipulation couldn’t solve.

James’ sticky hands found their way to Silva’s cream-coloured jacket and pulled at it, leaving messy brown smudges along the edges, as he pulled it from Silva’s shoulders. He then pressed a grime-slicked hand to Silva’s near-golden shirt, leaving a hand shaped stain of possessiveness over his heart, as he pushed Silva to the table. The blond gave a chuckle, letting James undress him, letting him think he was the one who held the power.

Bond had undone Silva’s shirt, and had pulled away the cloth to reveal bare skin. He would have delved for a closer look, and touch and kiss, even, if not for the scars, which scattered Silva’s chest, and which had suddenly captivated Bond. Under the raised, slightly whiter, flesh lay the tanned skin of a fit man. He was neither overtly muscular nor skinny, as Silva liked to think: he had enough meat on his bones and enough muscle to fight. Bond didn’t seem to mind too much either, once his gaze had lost the pitying look it had regained the haze of ‘excitement’ and ‘play,’ though by then Silva had had enough of his submission.

Bond had just begun to move again, trailing a hand over one of Silva’s scar, when the blond clasped his hand over Bond’s and another over the man’s left shoulder, swapping their places with a quick hook of the leg, kick, and spin. Plates clattered to the tiled floor, shattering in allusion to Bond’s coming fall. 

Silva smirked down at Bond, “That’s better, eh?” he whispered, pulling away James’ jacket to unbutton his shirt, trailing kisses along each bit of flesh which was revealed, rolling a knee into the bulge at Bond’s crotch. Bond’s eyes flickered, his mouth opening wide in pleasured shock.

While Bond was known for his promiscuous image, and his famous kiss-first-and-ask-questions-later-attitude, he did in fact like taking it slow in the bedroom. Some might call him a tease. 

Silva wasn’t patient enough to find out. As far as he was concerned Bond was a dominant, confident and sexy, and in no way a simple one night stand. James would soon forget how to treat women and replace that knowledge with how he ought to treat a man. The same one, in this case, that he’d spend the rest of his life with. Silva didn’t take kindly to sharing after all.

The platinum blond began pulling Bond’s jacket from his shoulders, smiling as Bond shook in an attempt to help. James bit his lip, grunting in pain as the sleeve was pulled over his right shoulder. When both arms of the jacket had been pulled down to Double ‘O’ Seven’s wrists Silva quickly pushed the agent down, so that his hands were locked behind his back.

Bond began to protest, “Hey,” but his words were smothered by an eager mouth pressing itself to his.

Silva’s tongue delved into Bond’s mouth, licking the sensitive skin just on the inside of his lips. Silva bit down gently, earning himself a groan from the sandy agent pinned below him. 

Bond’s eyes watched Silva in a lidded ecstasy, his lips slightly red, remaining open, in an inviting manner. He struggled half-heartedly against Silva, who leant back to see the look of confusion on Double ‘O’ Seven’s face. Bond wasn’t used to submission and yet he was finding that he liked it. Silva could only smirk at the realisation he saw in the agent’s pretty blue eyes.

Bond’s obvious arousal was pressed firmly against Silva’s inner thigh, and Silva couldn’t help but roll against it, interrupting Bond’s hesitation and thoughts. Silva laughed at the incoherent noises Bond made in response.

“Bond,” Silva whispered, “James,” holding the man down with one hand as he began unzipping his suit pants. He knelt above Bond, keeping the man pinned down as he began pulling the pants down. 

“Really, James?” Silva laughed, looking down at Bond.

Double ‘O’ Seven’s original clothes had long been discarded and burnt but underwear had definitely been provided. Silva wasn’t exactly complaining at the lack of layers, no not at all. 

Silva watched Bond’s reaction as he bent down to hover over the agent’s hot throbbing cock. As expected he shivered again, breathing out unsteadily. 

Silva breathed on him, “Is this what you want, James?” he asked tauntingly.

James breathed out shakily, the softest whisper of a yes falling from his lips.

“Sorry?” Silva asked, kissing the base of Bond’s cock, “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Yes,” Bond pushed out, “God, fuck, yes,” he shivered again, thrusting his hips up urgently, “stop being a fucking tease, Silva, goddammit!”

Silva pulled back, “A tease? I never,” he chuckled, “if you say so, James,” he smiled, pulling off the table, “you stay right there now won’t you?” 

James didn’t answer, instead he watched Silva as he shed his clothes as if they were on fire, finishing with a palms up, ‘what do you think?’ stance. Bond visibly swallowed, which was proof enough for Silva that yes, Bond did in fact like what he saw. It didn’t seem to matter to Bond that Silva’s body was littered with scars of all shapes and sizes, and Silva would be lying if he said that that fact didn’t spark some kind of warm feeling within his chest.

James pulled at his restraints but Silva wouldn’t have it, “Uh huh,” he warned, “no James, lay still or I won’t do a thing for you.”

Bond responded with an annoyed pout, before laying back as ordered. Silva reveled in the moment of Bond’s obedience, tilting his head and admiring the tanned muscular form of Double ‘O’ Seven, with his pants pulled down to his ankles, laying on Silva’s own dining table. Just watching his unmoving form made Silva harder, if that were even possible.

With the convenience of Bond’s averted gaze Silva retrieved something from the pocket of his suit pants, and returned to standing over Bond, with two items in his hands. Silva placed one of the items on the chair behind him, and began unscrewing the lid of the other. James heard the squeak of the object and shivered in anticipation.

“Silva,” James growled in warning, through clenched teeth.

“Patience was never a virtue of yours, was it, my friend?” Silva asked, dabbing two fingers into the small container. Bond didn’t answer, though he didn’t need to. Silva screwed the lid back on and placed it on the floor, picking up the other item from the chair without alerting Bond to its presence.

Silva pushed Bond’s knees up so that his underside was exposed, and ran a hand along his firm buttocks, before circling him and pressing a finger into him. Bond groaned and squirmed without meaning to as Silva thrust the finger in and out, adding another, and scissoring the two to stretch him. When Silva couldn’t wait any longer, and Bond was begging breathlessly for him to get along with it, he pulled his fingers out and readied himself at his entrance, pushing in a little way and beginning a thrusting motion, which deepened with every buck.

James bit down on his bottom lip as cries erupted from his chest, puffs of excited incoherent noises, which matched every ragged breath and groan Silva made. Silva, who had one hand gripping Bond’s thigh, still held the other object behind his back, but as the two had worked up a steady pace Silva thought it time to reveal his secret weapon.

Silva leant forward, interrupting their act to wrap the item, a string of rope, around Bond’s neck several times, before pulling back, keeping the rope slack, as he continued the thrusting. Bond could only give a quick look, though that was all it took, to see what it was. It wasn’t as if he could do anything about it, and Silva had a gleeful inkling that James sort of wanted, what the platinum blond was implying he was about to do.

The rope was wound around Bond’s neck several times, and the two ends were curled around Silva’s fists. Silva slowly pulled on the rope ends, tightening the grip on Bond’s throat as he returned his hands to the agent’s clammy thighs. Bond’s incoherent noises became small gasps for air, and his eyes fluttered more as he shivered in apparent bliss.

Silva pulled on the rope tighter and thrust harder, growling and moaning, watching as James began turning red, droplets of sweat forming on his forehead, neck and beautifully formed chest. Bond suddenly began shivering, struggling against the restraint, bucking his hips a couple of times before coming in muffled ecstasy. 

Silva loosened the rope slightly, but let himself thrust harder and deeper into Bond, who breathed heavily through a wet open mouth. Silva came with a cry, his hands gripping Bond’s thighs tightly as he continued to thrust through the afterglow. He then pulled out and collapsed into the chair behind him, letting the rope fall from his hands.

Bond’s breathing slowed and he sat up. His hair was ruffled slightly, the most it could at its shortened length, his cheeks were flushed and his skin shone with sweat. His eyes, still lidded in the afterglow, watched Silva, as a small half-smile spread across his face. Silva smiled back, but watched silently as Bond wriggled out of his jacket, wincing a little because of his right shoulder. He took off his shoes, socks and suit pants, and pulled the rope from his neck. 

He then sat himself on Silva’s legs, facing him, and leant forwards, his eyes searching for something in Silva’s own. Silva tilted his head and bit the inside of his cheek as his eyes followed the red lines around Bond’s neck. He trailed a finger along them, as if admiring his work.  
“Not as pretty as yours,” James said. Silva for once found it difficult to recognise whether the words were sarcastic or sympathetic.  
Silva huffed out a laugh anyway, though its tragic undertones were hard to mask, and replied with, “the Chinese are so gifted in the art of torture.”

Bond sighed, and ran his index finger along the lines of a large ‘X’, which ran from his left shoulder, passed his bellybutton and to his lower abdomen, and from his right collarbone to just below his left nipple. The lines were jagged and cruel but it was no mistaking where the center of the ‘X’ sat.

“The Chinese are ever so symbolic in their torture,” Silva told Bond, “They wished to carve out my soul and in turn my heart.”

Bond didn’t respond but he studied the mark more closely, as if trying to figure out if the Chinese had succeeded or not, though his expression gave away no sense of interest, only acceptance.

Silva pressed a kiss to Bond’s neck, just under his ear, breaking the agent out of his reverie.

“Though you have no scars to show it, James,” Silva whispered, “you know M has done the same to you.”

The agent tilted his head, to give Silva better access to his neck, but that was all the answer he gave.

“It is good that you escaped while you could,” he said, kissing the tendons in Bond’s twisted neck, “it is good that you found me before she could break you any farther.”

Silva continued down to the wound in Bond’s shoulder, “a shame she already succeeded in creating the first crack,” he muttered, before planting a kiss upon the circular scar.

Bond shivered, and made a pained noise.

Silva pulled back, “Your shoulders hurting more than usual,” it wasn’t a question.

“The table isn’t the most comfortable place to lay,” Bond responded, the business-like façade, which he’d worn when defending M, had returned, “in fact it was bloody uncomfortable.”

“Next time then,” Silva smiled, “we do it in my bed.”

James’ façade flickered.

The third step was to give hope, the fourth, to take it away, and the fifth was to rewrite him, from inside out. Silva was ever so good at manipulation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistakes will be edited later thanks to my beta 30_rock_office (Mrs_Don_Draper), who kindly offered to help with my horrendous grammar and spelling, but is unable to edit this just yet. I'll update as soon as possible.  
> If you enjoyed this chapter please leave a comment. Thank you!


	3. Falling Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We are so alike and unalike at the same time, James,” he said, “We are two shards from the same broken mirror, the only difference is that one of us has fallen from the frame and shattered into thousands of shards, while the other has remained in place, the inevitable fall always there, taunting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I’m sorry this took so long, I’ve been busy with Christmas and well...you know how that is. Plus I wasn’t sure where to take this story and now I know for sure so it shouldn’t be too long a wait after this chapter. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd at the moment but will be beta'd soon by 30_rock_office (Mrs_Don_Draper) who kindly offered to do so! Anyway enjoy!

Bond thought back on his time spent in captivity and found that he'd lost count of the days. Were they even days? Perhaps weeks or even months had gone by and he'd not realised. But Bond was quite content where he was, so it didn't really matter.

The agent turned over on his side, pulling the silk sheet, from Silva's luxurious, red double bed, with him. Silva mumbled but didn't stir. The platinum blond had been kind to Bond, overtly so; Bond had not been subjected to any kind of torture or interrogation once the two of them had become intimate. Things were rough, but Double 'O' Seven didn't mind that one bit.

The agent sat up and stretched, rolling his injured shoulder. It hurt, but nowhere near as painful as it once had. Every night Silva subjected him to a 'kiss it better' routine, and Bond was beginning to think that the stupid shoulder was psychosomatic, or at least partly, because Silva had definitely succeeded in doing something.

Bond looked around the room with a smirk; Silva's bedroom was like everything else he owned: suave, elegant and expensive. It was bloody comfortable, though, so Bond found that he didn't give a damn if it were all stolen or if it were all procured by purchasing the items.

As far as missions went, this one was quite successful. He'd succeeded in halting the enemies attempts at destroying M and MI6, and even had a somewhat unexpected retirement plan set out.

"James," Silva mumbled sleepily, "come back to bed." 

Bond looked back at the enemy and smirked. Silva's blond hair stood up all over the place and he was staring at Bond with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"I never left," Bond replied, laying back in the bed.

After a moment Silva spoke up again, "you hogged the blankets all night."

Bond laughed.

When Silva had decided that he was awake, and that Bond was allowed to go and shower, the both of them got out of bed. When the two were showered and dressed they made their way to the dining room where a meal had been set out for them.

Bond sat eagerly, and dug into the delicious meal before him, which consisted of bacon, eggs and tomatoes. As they ate Silva watched Bond, and after a while he finally spoke up, wording the concern, which refused to leave him, 

"How long," he began, placing his knife and fork down, "do you plan on staying, James?"

Bond shrugged, "Not sure," he replied.

"What is it that is keeping you here?" Silva continued, "Is it that you fear what I'll do to you if you say you wish to leave?"

Bond shook his head, "no."

"Is it Her, then? Is it that you fear what I might do to Her when you leave?"

Bond paused and considered this. Was he scared of that? Surely not, but...

Silva smiled sadly, as if Bond's silence was answer enough, "you still love her," he said, "you still think Mommy wants you, you still think that what she did was a mistake, a redeemable action," he concluded.

Bond didn't answer; He didn't have to, Silva was right.

Silva shook his head sadly, "She did what she had to, yes, but she didn't care about you one bit," he mimicked cocking a gun and aimed his hand at Bond's shoulder, "she saw a target and a man in the way and ordered the shot," Silva frowned, "Pweew."

The noise sent a shiver through Bond, and he had to close his eyes as a wave of nausea came over him, and the images of that day flashed through his mind. 

Silva placed a hand on Bond's, "We are so alike and unalike at the same time, James," he said, "We are two shards from the same broken mirror, the only difference is that one of us has fallen from the frame and shattered into thousands of shards, while the other has remained in place, the inevitable fall always there, taunting."

Bond found himself staring at Silva's hand on his, unable to say a thing. Why did he still feel anything towards this woman? All she did was throw him into danger he wasn't prepared for. Though half of that was because he'd disconnected MI6's radio and he'd jumped into the danger without backup. But the test results? Silva could have faked them but he'd already known deep down that he'd failed them. He couldn't even hit a bloody still target at close range. Had M changed previous test results so that he went into action anyway? He'd given her everything and she'd given him...what? A new mission?

Silva watched Double 'O' Seven the entire time, rubbing a soothing hand over his, "And do you think Mommy will want to keep this broken mirror up on the wall?" he asked, breaking Bond out of his reverie, "she's already cleared away the shards scattered on the floor but what about the rest?" Silva sighed, shaking his head slowly, "She tells herself she'll get rid of it one day, and she will, but just not yet. After all she loved that mirror, it tended to reflect only the most important things: herself and the city behind her." 

Bond met Silva's eyes and tried to disagree.

"But it no longer does, James," Silva finished, "it no longer does."

Bond stood, shaking off Silva's hand, and left the room. Silva watched him go, smiling to himself. Bond lent against the wall of the hall just outside of the room and sighed. The relationship he had with M, if you could call it even that, was a business one. It had never reached the level of friendship, though he had extended his hand several times. She never rang him to make sure he was alright; she never did a thing that positioned him to believe she cared at all. Why then did he ever care for her safety? Silva called M, 'Mommy,' frequently; could it be that Bond had begun seeing her as just that? A mother?

Bond's shoulder ached and his head span. He had no reason to care for M, in fact he should hate her. 'Orphans make the best agents,' she'd told him once. Why's that? Because they have nothing left to lose? He could have been given to any number of kind families where he would have grown up loved. He would have met someone nice, been in some ordinary boring...safe job, and he'd have been happy. She'd taken any hope of an ordinary life away from him before he even hit puberty. How could he call someone like that Mother?

"James?"

Bond looked up to see Silva standing beside him, a worried expression playing across his handsome features.

"Are you alright James?" he asked.

Bond nodded, "Of course," he replied, sarcastically.

"Perhaps we should do something to take your mind off of it," Silva told him. 

Silva patted his arm and continued down the hall. Bond followed, his mind providing him with images of days before, of their sticky and rough sex on the dining table, and of later more tender moments in the bedroom. It turned out, however, that Silva, for once, was not thinking of sex.

The platinum blond had led Bond out into a courtyard where a huge magnificent statue once stood, but now lay in pieces upon the ground, and in the crook of the statue's neck stood an ill-kempt and dirty Severine, with her wrists tied together.

Bond turned to Silva and frowned, he'd forgotten about her. He'd assumed Silva had already killed her.

"Don't get me wrong, James, I'm glad she brought you to me," Silva assured, smiling at him, "but I do not reward insubordination," the blond turned to her, his face changing into one of immense loathing, "and I do not take kindly to people touching my things."

"Can't you let her go?" Bond asked, "She's done everything you asked, despite the fact she went against some orders."

Silva shook his head, "She was given the choice to leave peacefully long ago but she chose not to," he replied.

"I needed the protection!" Severine suddenly cried.

"Shush," Silva growled, "and then she plotted against me," he continued, practically spitting out the words in disgust. He then turned to Bond, and his demeanor softened dramatically, "you of all people know that we must punish those who do not follow their orders."

Bond went to disagree but stopped. Great Britain was ruled by law and order, yet MI6 was exempt from it. Not even the government knew what MI6 was doing most of the time. It punished those who it saw fit to punish, or to kill. In truth there was no law, no order, only men and women with the money and time to tell little people what to do, and who to kill. Who knew, maybe Bond had killed innocent men and women before just because he was told that they were the enemy. He turned his back on the woman and crossed his arms.

Silva chuckled, gesturing for the guards who stood at both ends of the courtyard to step forward. One began pouring a bottle of scotch into two shot glasses, which sat on a small table beside Bond and Silva. 

They handed both to Silva, who passed one to Bond, "what shall we drink to?" he asked.

"Law and order," Bond replied bitterly, taking a sip of the scotch.

Silva smirked at him, before taking a sip of his own drink. He sighed, as if in satisfaction of his beverage, and then shook his head, snapping out of it, "The box," he ordered the guards, before he began walking towards Severine.

Bond watched him half-heartedly as a guard opened a large wooden box to reveal two beautiful classic revolvers. Bond turned just in time to see Silva press his lips to Severine's and kiss her roughly. It wasn't out of love that Silva did it, or even out of liking her, it was a mocking kiss, one filled with passionate hate. But that didn't stop the sight from making Bond's stomach churn as a wicked hate towards the woman bubbled up inside him.

Silva placed his shot glass haphazardly upon Severine's head, and stepped back admiring his work, before walking back to Bond. He took the guns from their velvet cushioning and held one out to Bond.

"Target practice?" Bond asked, feeling the heaviness of the words clog his throat.

"Exactly," Silva smiled, "try shooting the scotch glass from head."

Bond took the gun and swallowed, before raising it.

Silva suddenly lent toward him, "Let's see who ends up on top," he whispered into his ear.

The implication wasn't lost on Bond, he understood that it was all a game. He knew that the only things that mattered to Silva were justice and his newly acquired Double 'O' Agent. Bond lowered his arm and aimed the revolver at the shot glass on top of Severine's head.

"Did you really die that day?" Silva asked, though it wasn't a mocking tone, "Is there any of the old Double 'O' Seven left," but rather an encouraging one.

Bond breathed in, lowered the gun slightly, and breathed out. 

BANG

The shot glass fell to the concrete floor, smashing to pieces. The bullet had embedded itself smack bang in the center of her forehead, and now she stood doubled over, dead. The only thing holding her up were the ropes around her center and the statue she lent against. 

Bond dropped the gun to his side as Silva laid a hand on his shoulder, "better luck next time," he whispered in sympathy, "with practice you will hit the target once again."

Bond shrugged off the hand and turned, holding the gun limply in one hand, "I did hit my target," he replied, feeling no remorse.

Silva didn't reply to Bond's comment, instead he gestured for the guards to leave, "go!" he ordered, "leave, go!"

 

Bond turned toward Silva who watched him with an unreadable expression until the last guard had left, before he smirked, "I believe, then, James, I owe you an apology," he paused, "and a reward."

Suddenly Silva dropped to his knees in front of him, taking Bond's pant zip in hand and unzipping it. Bond's eyes widened and his mouth fell open as Silva pulled him out without even a, 'are you ready'. He looked down at Silva who knelt in front of him, watching him with a smirk, and Bond began to grow hard at the sight.

Bond threw back his head, struggling to hold back a shiver of anticipation, "What are you bloody waiting for," he managed through clenched teeth.

Silva chuckled, before descending on Bond in one quick movement, slicking the man's cock full heartedly with saliva before pulling off as quickly as he had descended. Bond let out a breathless half-cry, shivering and bucking in an attempt for more. 

"Is this your idea of torture?" Bond managed through gritted teeth.

"No," Silva chuckled, "This, James, is my idea of a reward."

Silva then proceeded to blow air along Bond's length, which had the agent writhing in want for more.

"Silva stop fucking teasing!" Bond growled.

"Why?" Silva asked, pressing a quick kiss to Bond's throbbing cock, "I like watching you like this, James."

Bond let out a groan, and involuntarily bucked toward Silva, but the man held him in place. No, Bond suddenly decided, he wasn't having any of this. Double 'O' Seven pressed the revolver he had to Silva's chin, grabbing the man's platinum blond hair in the other hand. Silva bit his bottom lip and looked up at Bond.

"I," Bond swallowed, "I am going to tell you what to do now."

Silva grinned, "James, I thought-"

Bond pulled Silva's head back roughly, "No," he growled, "no speaking, I have the gun, I'm in charge," Bond pressed the tip of the gun harder against the man's chin, "nod."

Silva pursed his lips in a humored pout and nodded obediently.

"Now take me into your mouth," Bond ordered shakily, "slowly."

Silva struggled to hold back his smile as he pressed his lips to Bond's cock before opening wide to envelop as much he could.

"Now suck," Bond ordered, "use your tongue-ah!" he cried out as Silva began, "-too," Bond managed.

Silva's tongue lapped at Bond's throbbing member, as he moved up and down upon it.

"More," Bond growled.

Silva began humming, and Bond cried out again. The buzzing traveled right up the Double 'O' Agent's abdomen and sent shivers up his spine. Silva then began applying extra friction by raking his teeth softly against it with every movement.

Bond's breathing grew heavier and unintentional noises began leaving his open mouth. He felt the pleasure build up, and began bucking into Silva's mouth without warning the man. 

He pulled at Silva's blond hair and cried out as he came into the man's mouth.

"Swallow," Bond ordered breathlessly, feeling his legs shake with the effort to remain standing.

Silva swallowed and then pulled off of Bond, tucking him back into his pants. The man then pushed away the gun, which sat loosely in Bond's right hand and stood.

"I never knew you liked to be so forceful, James," Silva smirked.

Bond smirked in response, "It's your fault your such a tease," he replied after finally gaining his breath back.

Silva chuckled, "I think I like it when you're forceful," the man said truthfully.

He then stepped forward and softly pressed his lips to Bond's. His hands disappeared under Bond's suit jacket and Bond's grip on the gun tightened as he lent into Silva's touch. It was a gentle kiss, sweet and slow, and it didn't last long but Bond cherished every second of it. 

Silva let go of him and stepped back, smiling, "You understand now," the platinum blond stated.

Bond stared at him in confusion, his mind still fuzzy from the afterglow, "what?" 

Silva tilted his head toward Severine's still body.

The happy glow of the moment dissipated and Bond clenched his jaw, nodding once. Then he suddenly noticed something. He tilted his head in confusion and looked toward Silva with a frown, there was something in the inner pocket of Bond's jacket which hadn't been there a second ago. Silva only smirked in response to Bond's confusion. The object, whatever it was, was small and solid; he might have missed it if his shoulder weren't so sensitive to pressure. 

Bond swapped his gun over to the opposite hand and reached into the pocket. As soon as he enveloped it in his fist he knew what it was. He frowned at Silva, and took the object out. It was the small radio that Q had given him. He thought back on the meeting; it felt as if it had taken place years ago, or maybe even in a previous lifetime. 

Silva must have taken the radio off him when he first arrived, and switched it off. Bond turned the radio over in his hand, and saw that the green light, which signaled that the radio was on, blinked up at him. 

Bond looked up at Silva and saw that the man was smirking at him, daring him to guess what he was thinking. Bond pocketed the radio, and stared down at the ground in thought. Why had Silva turned on the radio? What was the purpose of it? What was the end game?

Bond's eyes suddenly widened in understanding; he raised his gun, and aimed it as Silva who raised his hands in defeat as his smirk fell from his face. Three helicopters, their propeller blades slicing through the air, appeared from over the courtyard walls just as Silva turned to face them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the courtyard scene I wasn’t really sure what drink Silva and Bond drank or what guns they used because I haven’t seen the movie in a while but I took an educated guess after attempting to analyze a rather blurry 00Silva fanvid. So please forgive me, and tell me, if I’m wrong. 
> 
> Please leave a comment! Thank you!


	4. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end has finally come. Silva is taken in by MI6, his computer is being scanned by Q-Branch, M feels regret for past wrongs, and Bond is stuck in indecision. Bond must make a series of decisions, ones which will be difficult to make. He has just one question though, 'Is Mommy redeemable?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it...the end. I hope you like it. I'm sorry I took so long to update I struggled a bit with this chapter. Actually, it ended up being a lot longer than I intended. Whoops... XD
> 
> Anyway enjoy!

Silva had been taken in without much of a fight from his bodyguards and lackeys, though that was hardly a surprise; they all thought that their income wouldn’t survive what MI6 had install for him, and they would be right. Despite that, however, Bond did hear a few comments on the state of Bond’s attire and person; of the lack of scratches and bruises, though many disregarded these tiny doubts, preferring to accept the familiar notion that nothing unorthodox had occurred between Bond and Silva. Silva’s computers had been taken to Q-Branch, and Silva himself had been placed within a highly secure prison. 

Bond had met M soon after his return to MI6 though she had little to say to him, she did congratulate him on the retrieval of the cyber terrorist. Bond had responded with a curt, ‘Ma’am.’ M had then ordered for Tanner to take her to Silva’s chamber; she didn’t yet know which agent had come back to haunt her, and Bond could see that that frightened her. 

Bond waited for her inside the opaque glass-lined room, which held Silva’s transparent prison. Silva had turned his back on Bond as soon as he had been placed within his cell, which meant that Bond could neither read nor understand what might be going through the blond’s head. He understood now, though, Silva wanted to be caught. _But for what purpose? He could hardly destroy M from inside his cell._ Silva had nothing on him. His clothes had been discarded and destroyed, replaced by the pale green of a simple prison uniform.

Suddenly the doors to the room slid open. Silva, who had not moved from his position, looked down and adjusted his uniform before turning to meet the gaze of M. Bond watched his grim faced superior as she walked toward Silva, who grinned and let out a small laugh.

“You’re smaller than I remember,” he said.

“Whereas I barely remember you at all.”

“Strange,” Silva paused, dreamily, “to me it feels just like yesterday.” Silva turned toward M, “Are you surprised?” he asked.

“Not particularly,” M answered. 

Bond, having known M for so long, could tell it was a lie. Silva probably saw through it too.

“But then you always were a slippery one,” she added.

“Maybe that’s why you liked me so much,” Silva responded, in a false light-hearted tone.

The two argued light-heartedly, and Bond watched as both their masks of false bravado began to crumble. Something had happened between them; Something that Silva could not forgive M for and something M could not forgive herself for.

“You flatter yourself.”

“Ooof,” Silva turned to Bond. It was the first time he’d looked at him since the courtyard. The blond’s eyes were dark and sad, “no remorse,” he said. The look lasted only a few seconds but in that small moment Bond saw everything Silva felt: misery, anger and suffering. In that look Bond could hear Silva’s voice, _‘I’ve stripped her mask from her, look what she’s done, look at what she is, see how she’s tricked you,’_ and then it ended and Silva turned back toward M.

“You’re just as I imagined.” 

“Regret is unprofessional,” Bond turned to M and for once felt nothing toward her but dislike.

Silva began to laugh, it sounded genuine in the beginning but it’s darker undertones soon took over, “Regret is unprofessional,” Silva mimicked angrily, before turning on M, “They kept me for months in a room with no air, they tortured me and I protected your secrets I protected you. They made me suffer and suffer,” Silva paused, “and suffer,” his voice broke. 

M tried to mask the pain she felt but Bond could see it and he knew Silva could too. Bond’s dislike of M steadily grew as he listened to Silva.

“Until I realised,” Silva continued, “it was you who betrayed me.”

Bond remembered what Silva had said about M sending him into danger he was not yet prepared for. She had betrayed him just as she had betrayed Silva. Actually she had betrayed him twice. 

“So I had only one thing left, my cyanide capsule in my back left molar, you remember, right?” Silva asked M, “So I broke the tooth and bit into the capsule and it...” he slowly shook his head, struggling with the memories of the pain, “...burned all my insides,” he finally managed to spit out, “but I didn’t die...”

Bond felt, for the first time since he had been told of how his parents had died, like he was going to be sick. 

“Life clung to me like a disease,” Silva continued, a hysterical smile cracking into appearance. Silva slipped off of his chair slowly to kneel on the floor so that he was eye level with M, “and then I understood why I had survived, I needed to look into your eyes one...last...time.”

M visibly swallowed, “Well I hope it was worth it,” she replied, and then with hardly a pause, “Mr. Silva, you are to be transferred to Belmarsh prison where you’ll remain in custody until the Crown Prosecution Service deem you fit to stand trial for-”

“Say my name,” Silva interrupted, “say it, my real name, I know you remember it.”

“Your name is on the memorial wall of the very building you attacked,” M replied coldly, “I will have it struck off, soon your past will be as non-existent as your future,” she thought she had won. Bond could see it in her eyes, determination, success. Whatever regret she had felt toward Silva’s unfortunate had been smothered by her pride. “I will never see you again,” she said before turning to walk away.

Bond turned to see Silva’s face contort into a silent snarl of anger, before he reluctantly walked to M’s side.

“Do you know what it does to you?!” Silva growled, his voice wavering in anger, “Hydrogen cyanide?”

M paused and Bond turned toward Silva. The man bent down and stuck his fingers in his mouth, and Bond watched in horror as Silva removed his teeth and a part of his jaw.

“Look upon your work, Mother.”

It was then that Bond had an epiphany, which determined the answer to his earlier indecision. He now knew what it was he must do. Bond gave one last sad look in Silva’s direction, meeting the platinum blond’s eyes, before he turned to see M’s horrified expression. She knew what she had done, and yet it had taken the cold hard proof to shatter her perfect mask to smithereens.

M left the room hurriedly, followed by Tanner and Bond. She was silent as the three walked back through MI6, most likely lost in memories she had regretted but now despised herself for. It only took the length of the next room, however, before M had recovered once more, nervously spouting instructions at Bond like they were pleas for forgiveness. 

“I want this resolved.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Bond replied coldly. 

She must have sensed the tone, for she suddenly turned to Bond, “His name is Tiago Rodrigues,” she said it as if she couldn’t hold it in any longer. 

“He was a brilliant agent,” she continued, pausing in thought as to how she should continue, “but he started operating beyond his brief, hacking the Chinese," the handover was coming up and they were on to him, so I gave him up.” She said it like he were a package, an object, a knight on her board that she sacrificed for the Queen. “I got six agents in return and a peaceful transition.”

Any pity Bond might have felt for her shriveled away to nothing.

“We should go Ma’am, board of inquiry leaves in 30 minutes,” Tanner reminded M.

“I want to know what’s on that computer,” M directed at Bond, before turning to Tanner, “I have a few things in my office I’d like to collect.”

Bond watched as they left and paused in thought before turning and making his way to Q branch. Q was busy decrypting and Bond only half-heartedly listened to him prattle on as he did so. Bond’s mind wandered back to the thought of shoving the boy against the desk when Q interrupted the thought.

“He’s established fail safe protocols to wipe the memory if there’s any attempt to access certain files,” he spoke quickly, though it wasn’t out of a need to rush but rather a habit, as if his mind worked at a different speed to ‘normal’ people, though Bond could hardly be called normal. “Only about six people in the world could program safe files like that,” he continued.

Bond rolled his eyes at Q’s words or rather the way he said them, “course there are,” he replied, almost on habit, “can you get passed them,” he asked.

“I invented them.”

Bond smirked, first at the boy’s cheek and then at the fact which dawned on him soon after. Silva was too smart for this. He would not use the program of a boy, whom he most likely knew to work in MI6, unless he wanted the boy to hack into his computer. That meant Silva had something planned, which meant that M could not be allowed to leave the building.

“You can work without me standing here, right?” Bond asked.

“No, your constant eye-rolls and witty remarks are imperative to my work,” Q answered sarcastically.

Bond let himself laugh at that, and as he passed Q’s desk he saw the boy smile. It was a shame they would probably end up on the wrong side of the chessboard. Bond reached M’s office and saw that Tanner stood at the door, ready to accompany M to her meeting. Bond told him that she had specifically asked for himself to take his place. Of course he believed him. Bond entered M’s office and closed the door softly behind him. M was in the middle of packing a small bag: a gun, a mobile, this and that, probably that wretched dog too; as a precaution no doubt.

She looked up to see him, “Bond?” she asked.

“I’ve taken Tanner’s place,” he replied, “I’d like to accompany you to your meeting myself.”

Her face betrayed no sign of sentiment, for she was not that kind of woman. Her answer was simple and direct, “Very well,” she replied.

She didn’t ask but Bond knew she was waiting for him to explain. “Q is attempting to decode Silva’s computer,” he told her, “I left him to it.”

She didn’t answer. Instead she stood, pulling her bag onto her shoulder and looked at Bond expectantly. He was about to say something, of what he wasn’t sure, but the moment was taken from him when a soft beeping filled the air and chaos erupted outside her window. Her office looked down on a section of the makeshift MI6 and from there Bond and M saw the people running this way and that. It seemed Bond’s assumption was correct. Silva had left a little something for Q to find.

M turned to look at the device on her desk, which was making the beeping noise, and then at the chaos outside her window; her posture became rigid. M turned to Bond, as if for an answer to why her alarm was going off, though it was obvious she already had her theories.

“Silva,” Bond said anyway, “we should leave,” he added.

M nodded, “I quite agree.” 

The agents below began to file out of the room, spooked by whatever Silva had left behind. M stood and stepped forward but stopped when Bond did not move from blocking the door. The sounds outside grew quieter as the last few agents left. No one was running to defend M. They either knew that M was already defended or they didn’t care enough about her to see if she was all right. Bond liked to think it was the latter.

“Double ‘O’ Seven?” M raised an eyebrow, probably expecting Bond to spurt out a complicated escape plan.

He didn’t. Instead he replied with, “I said we should leave,” he paused, watching M’s reaction, “I never said we were going to.”

“Fine,” she said, “what exactly do you plan on us doing?” Still she did not understand, though she thought she did, “don’t even attempt to persuade me to do something ridiculous like hide in a cupboard.”

Bond answered as detachedly as she had spoken, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Fine,” she repeated, “I’m waiting.”

_I am too,_ Bond thought, _waiting for some kind of sign._ Suddenly a large explosion sounded, it shook the windows and walls, dislodging tiny specks of weak debris from the ceiling. It was slightly muffled by the windows of M’s office but while there was no sign of destruction it couldn’t have been far from where M and Bond stood.

M had grabbed her desk in shock at the explosion and Bond saw a little fear spill into her eyes.

“I demand that you tell me your plan, Double ‘O’ Seven, I will not stand dumb because you like to be cryptic,” she suddenly ordered, “I’d rather prefer not to be buried in rubble.”

“There won’t be another bomb,” Bond replied.

“And how do you know that, Double ‘O’ Seven?” M asked.

“I know Silva,” Bond answered, “he only wanted to scare us; he’s much too proud to be a suicide bomber, he’d want to kill you in a more personal manner.”

Bond saw movement from the corner of his eye, and already knew who it would be. M hadn’t seen him. A few seconds later M’s eyes widened and she stumbled back. Bond turned, a small smirk playing on his lips as Silva opened the office door and stepped inside.

Bond suddenly had a brilliant idea. He stepped backwards toward M, holding his hand out behind him, shaking it as if he were in a hurry. M seemed to understand what he wanted because the next second he felt a gun in his hand. Silva watched the whole thing and smiled at Bond.

“You took your time,” Bond said, raising his gun toward Silva.

“There were a few...” Silva paused to shrug, “complications.”

“Well now that there’s no more,” Bond continued, “What do you plan to do with us?” he asked.

Silva laughed, enjoying the game, “Well now that we’re alone at last,” he smiled, “I have a few things in mind, Bond.”

“You’re unarmed,” M finally spoke up.

Silva’s eyes widened, “beg your pardon, Mother,” Silva chuckled again, “I didn’t see you there.”

“You _will_ not win,” M told him confidently.

Silva began laughing again, doubling over as he chortled. “Come now, James,” Silva said, shaking his head as he wiped tears from his eyes, “we really shouldn’t play games with Mommy,” his face suddenly became serious as he stood straight, “I will always win,” he told her, before turning to Bond.

Bond gave a curt nod before turning his gun on M. He then stepped back to stand beside Silva. For a few seconds there was still hope in her eyes but is slowly vanished as his betrayal sunk in.

“All this time?” she asked, “Since we got you back?” It didn’t even surprise Double ‘O’ Seven that her expression and tone of voice were as they always were, cold and detached.

Bond grimaced, “To be honest I was having my doubts back when you ordered an agent to shoot me.”

“I ordered her to shoot the other ma-”

“I was practically glued to the target trying to retrieve the files you lost!” Bond growled out, “and you wondered why I stayed away from it all after I died.”

“You had no other place to go,” M responded, “here is your home.”

“What and you’re my mother?” Bond asked angrily, “home,” he spat, “I’ve never had a home and you know it,” he told her, “Skyfall was only a shadow of a once happier time.”

“We gave you a purpose.”

Bond laughed at that, “A purpose,” he scoffed once again, “I kill whom you, M, deem fit to die and I hope to live through the bloody day to get my pay, hardly a dream job.”

“You were always meant to work for us Bond, what would you have done?” she asked.

“Anything I bloody wanted to do and that’s the point,” he sighed, “Why did you even choose me?” 

“You already know the answer to that,” M replied, and she was right, he did already know. It was a cold calculating decision, determined solely by statistics.

“I know!” Bond shouted in frustration, “I want you to say it.”

M swallowed slowly, the only sign of her discomfort, “Orphans make the best agents.”

Bond smirked coldly, “Do you get to see them?” he asked, “Do you get to see all the children you bring in to train? Do you tell them about the adventures they’ll have when they grow up?” he snarled, “When they go out on the field and die fighting for Queen and country, do you even see them, do you remember which innocent child grew to be the man or woman who lies in their own blood?” He paused, “Or are they all just numbers?” 

M’s face finally cracked. There was a sharp anger in her eyes, “Of course I remember,” she spat back, “I remember every bloody face and every bloody name, and I know that I ruin their lives but I’ll tell you something, Bond,” she said, stepping forwards, “me and my cruel ways save hundreds of lives every day.”

Bond nodded slowly, “So what you’re saying is that the sacrifice of one outweighs the death of many.” He said, turning as if to go before slapping M across the face.

Bond turned his back on M, holding the gun out to Silva, who watched Bond with a sad look. Silva placed his hand on Bond’s own, the one holding the gun, and pulled him close.

“You shouldn’t let her wind you up like that,” he whispered, brushing a stray hair from Bond’s face.

Bond didn’t answer.

“Come here, James,” Silva smiled, tilting Bond’s chin up so that the man was forced to look into Silva’s eyes, “it will be alright,” he said, “we’ll both get our revenge, we will have our justice.”

Bond nodded weakly.

Silva’s smile widened and he pulled James into a kiss. Bond resisted, but only because he wasn’t in the mood. Bond understood that the embrace was partly to horrify M, and it was that and the fact that Silva was a bloody brilliant kisser, which had Bond finally giving in to the platinum blond’s touch. When Silva let him go both turned to see M staring at them. Her eyes were filled with regret and betrayal and her mouth was pursed in a stubborn flat line.

“Shall we?” Silva asked, wrapping Bond’s hand back over the gun Silva now held, “Shall we kill her together?”

M met Bond’s eyes for a second before turning away from him, sensing her possible end.

Bond was silent, though he let Silva raise both their hands. If a stranger were to glimpse them for a second they might say that the two men were dancing. In a way they were, dancing around the decision to shoot or not. While Silva was ready Bond was not. He wasn’t sure. _Could M redeem herself? Was she even redeemable?_

Silva seemed to sense Bond’s indecision, “James, how many have died in her name?” he paused, giving a quick kiss to Bond’s cheek, “how many will die in her name?”

“Too many,” Bond whispered, before pushing Silva’s finger down on the trigger.

While only one body hit the floor, it was two who fell that day.

\--

A few hours later MI6’s makeshift base was blown to kingdom come. While the majority of the agents had escaped before the agency blew up there were a few who did not make it to safety. Present on the list of the dead were M, Raoul Silva, former Tiago Rodrigues and Double ‘O’ Seven, also known as James Bond.

Unknown to both the public and to what remained of MI6, both Raoul Silva and James Bond had survived, and now lived quite comfortably where ever they pleased, doing whatever they bloody well wanted to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following this story! I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly enjoyed writing it. I'm sorry for any spelling or grammatical mistakes they will be fixed in the future. Please leave a comment, I'd love to know what you thought of the ending!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think so please leave a comment. I'll update as soon as possible!  
> The more comments I get the quicker I'll update!


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